Where Home Lies
by Red Dragon10
Summary: COMPLETE!He hated the innocence of these men, the same men he watched kill others mercilessly every day, the same men that dreamed a happy dream of green hills unstained by blood. Such a dream was foolish, and brought nothing but pain. A TRISTAN FIC.
1. The Folly of Freedom

**Where Home Lies**

**Chapter One: The Folly of Freedom**

**Disclaimer: If I owned King Arthur and his beautiful knights, Tristan would not be dead, and I would not feel the need to write this fiction. Anything you recognise as a movie line is just that...it does not belong to me. Savvy?**

**Author Note: I decided to write a fan fiction for my favorite character, Tristan, after I saw the movie for the second time. I think this fic will probably end up being 5 chapters or so...it'll be mainly from Tristan's perspective, and it will follow the movies events and exactly as possible. There are no made-up ships or anything, nor does Tristan or Dagonet or Lancelot survive[sorry girlies]. There will also probably be an epilogue. I apologise if some of my lines taken from the movie are not accurate[though I think they are pretty dang close]...this was the best I could remember, and no one has a transcript out yet! Enjoy, and PLEASE REVIEW...it makes me get happy tears. **_  
  
We will go home, we will go home, we will go home, across the mountains . . .  
  
_Home. The images that the woman's lilting voice brought to his mind were few and vague. But he remembered enough. He knew that, unlike the other knights, there was no home for him now. His eyes lowered to the knife in his hand, the half-eaten apple in the other. Here was his place. What could he do with freedom?  
  
But he didn't miss the expressions of his knights. Gawain, his eyes almost shut, struggling to remember a distant home. And Galahad, still a boy at heart, his eyelids shut tight to block out the world and see his own, a small smile playing over his lips. Bors, his mouth reciting the lyrics he knew so well, the lyrics that Tristan had often caught him whispering to himself., when the cold stars gazed down on his watch. Lancelot, his eyes hooded; always, he was difficult to read, his face an ocean in which contradicting emotions flitted carelessly over his features like tiny silver fish. Tristan's eyes settled on Dagonet last; Dagonet, who was struggling to keep his mechanical uncaring expression on his face, but who could not stop his eyes from shining.  
  
They needed freedom in a way he was sure he could never understand. And it was because they had something to go back to; Tristan firmly believed that was all that motivated the drive for freedom, the image of something once had and lost. He could understand no other motivation, though he himself had not even that. His...his was long gone.  
  
So when Arthur stepped forward, and spoke another's words in his strangled voice, Tristan was not hurt. He gouged at his apple, however, as he saw the actions of the other knights with lowered eyes. He witnessed betrayal glaze over Bors' eyes.  
  
'Every knight here has laid his life on the line for you,' he spat at Arthur, who's remorse lay written plainly in his graven face. 'For you! And instead of freedom you want more blood? _Our_ blood?!' His voice cracked with emotion in the cool night air, the lyrics to that fair, deceiving song dancing across his eyes. 'You think more of Roman blood than you do of ours?!'  
  
'Bors, they are our orders,' Arthur began heavily, 'when we return, your freedom will be waiting for yo -'  
  
'I'm a free man! I will choose my own fate!' Bors was not looking at Arthur now, nor was he directing his words at him. No, Bors shouted this to himself, and to any god that might be gazing on them now. Arthur fell into defeated silence.  
  
Tristan observed all of this, meanwhile peeling his apple as though he cared not at all for the topic. But that was not the case. What he hated was the broken faces of his comrades, and the fact that that expression was never present on his own face, and that none of his knights would ever expect to see it on his face. He hated the innocence of these men, the same men he watched kill others mercilessly every day, the same men that dreamed a happy dream of green hills unstained by blood. Such a dream was foolish, and brought nothing but pain.  
  
'Yeah yeah, we're all going to die someday,' Tristan spoke suddenly, surprising himself as much as the other knights. He lashed out at the emotions that coursed through him as he watched the disbelief in Galahad's face; he wished to lay that hurt bare, so that blessed insensitivity might fall on the boy. 'If it's death by a Saxon hand that frightens you,' he continued calmly, raising his eyes at last to look sharply at Galahad's expression, 'stay home.'  
  
Galahad's eyes lept with dark light at these words, the resentment he had always harboured towards Tristan's cold manner surging forward before he could halt his rash words.  
  
'Well if you're so eager to die...' the rest of Galahad's hot words were lost to Tristan. He had never been _eager_ to die, surely. But what did he have but his craft? He held killing to be an art: to kill quickly, painlessly, silently. Few took it seriously, and even fewer thought it anything above blood lust. It was something Galahad had never understood.  
  
No, he did not wish to die. He only wished to drive himself on, to build his unbreachable stone wall shelter up around himself, until perhaps he might forget his demons; until the images of his fellow knights, their eyes already looking homeward at something he would never taste again, might burn to ash.  
  
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It was decided; only Galahad still railed against Arthur, Lancelot standing dejectedly off to one side, and so Tristan drifted away from the knights, as he always did.  
  
Tarquin stood where Tristan had left him. He did not nicker in greeting, just as Tristan would not greet a friend with a shout of welcome. He was a sturdy horse, compact and strong on his clean, long limbs, which were dappled darkly.  
  
'Hey...hey,' Tristan whispered softly, and offered him the remains of his apple. 'And where's Iseult gone off to, now?' The horse wuffled and stared steadily at his master with deep brown eyes. Shifting his saddle to rest by Tarquin's front hooves, Tristan settled his head against the scantly padded seat. He had no intention of falling asleep. He stared instead at the distant flame where Dagonet, Bors, Gawain and Galahad were seated. There were so sounds issuing from the group; all gazed at the jumping flames, the echoes of the song haunting them. Certainly, beds and shelter would have been provided to them, had they so wished it. But no one bothered to ask, for the knights sullen watchfulness spoke for itself: too long had they slept in the wild. Such untamed men could not easily find rest in a building, tonight least of all.  
  
Tristan sighed, and forced his eyes shut. He might not sleep, but he would not watch the suffering - suffering that he could not comprehend - of his knights. It was times such as this that Tristan resented his _otherness_ the most. He was not lonely. He had Iseult and Tarquin, and when had he needed anything more? He remembered those days long ago, before the boys had even become knights, when he, the silent, suffering one, had been singled out as the 'scout,' the lone wolf, the One Who Stood At The Edge. It was not something he had asked for, but none of the other knights knew what the cause of his silence was, and so he had slid inadvertently into the role that had ensnared him through all these years. Now he knew no other. His sensitive ears caught the crack of the fire, and some buried part of him longed for its warmth.

No. He was not lonely.

**Please review, everyone! It would make me so, so happy! Huggles would be included!**

** -shakes fist- Or else... **


	2. The Blue Warriors

**Where Home Lies  
  
Chapter Two: The Blue Warriors  
  
AUTHOR NOTES: Thank you thank you to everyone who reviewed!!!! massive huggles You don't know how happy they made me! Go forth and multiply! Anyway, this chapter is a bit moody and dialogue-less, I admit, but there are so many Tristan-thoughts that I want to get out! The next chapter will probably have more dialogue...and also more knight interaction. I promise! Please review!  
  
Surreal13-- I'm pleased that you picked up on the 'his' Tristan uses when refering to the knights. He cares about them far more than he pretends too. And yes, I will be explaining what happened to his family through slow facts, and flashbacks!  
  
guinevere-- AWESOME name! I'm glad that you like the way I portray the knights..though this chapter is basically entirely Tristan-centric, I plan to have much more knight interaction in the next chapter.  
  
Squallsgurlygurl, koalared, asnowybunny, Tian Sirki-- thank you thank you! :grins happily: I absolutely will keep going, and Squallsgurlygurl...I'm glad it makes you sad..it's supposed to!  
  
**They set out the following morning, all of them tall, stony men astride thundering, forbidding steeds. They're surrogate home faded into the distance and the men instead focused single-mindedly on the task that would bring them freedom. There was no banter or casual talk in those first hours.  
  
As they entered the misty woodlands, Tristan's sharp eyes caught the fleeting movement of ghostly figures in the trees immediately. Running, crouching, watching; he could sense them, and he maneuvered his horse to stand beside Arthur's.  
  
'Woads,' he said tersely in the deceptive silence. Tristan was surprised at how he managed to keep the hate out of his voice, how he managed to keep it neutral, the way his knights were accustomed to it being. The men would not understand his passion, or the way his hand itched to loose his own arrows wildly into the darkness, to kill as many as he could before being killed himself. They could not know.  
  
'Where?'  
  
'All around us.'  
  
Arthur urged his horse forward but a swift arrow with a thorny rope attached cut off his escape. The air was suddenly full of the hiss of arrows, criss-crossing thorns across their path. They spun the horses in the opposite direction, only to be cut off again. Slowly, each escape was blocked off until the painted people revealed themselves, arrows nocked, fell light gleaming hungrily in their dark eyes. But they did not strike. Rather, with the deep call of a horn, somewhere in the distant forest, they reluctantly withdrew, and were gone as quickly as they had come.  
  
Merlin did not wish them dead. The other knights were quick enough to dismiss this, eager to leave the haunted place. But Tristan thought on it, as they hastened through the woods, and he was certain Arthur did as well. His distrusting nature sprung the question instantly to his mind: if he did not wish them dead, what did Merlin believe he could use them for? The shadowy images from that mouldering corner of his mind emerged before he could harness them: screams in the night, a flash of blue skin lit by fire, an empty, unnatural silence, and tears. Memories he had quashed for fifteen years. With a grimace, Tristan smothered that day, tucked it away in that ever-present place and charged on with his fellow knights.  
  
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They rode on, their horses holding a steady, loping canter for miles, over tree-less ridges, and before gathering thunderclouds. They slept briefly each night, huddled by a flickering fire, and sometimes Tristan sat away from the other men, his back leaning against the wet trunk of a tree; eyes staring blankly into the darkness of the forest, Iseult on his shoulder.  
  
Rarely did the knights mention his absence; after fifteen years, all but Galahad had grown accustomed to his soliitariety, though secretly, all wondered what the silent scout could possibly think about. But Tristan thought of many things.  
  
They were riding to rescue a Roman family from the approaching Saxons. Tristan could not even put his contempt for this mission into words; he doggedly followed Arthur because he knew the other knights needed his skill(or so he told himself), and because he had never shied away from death. The fact that he had no where else to go hid in the back of his mind.  
  
The other men fought for freedom, to return to their green, unstained hills. Tristan's lip curled at the thought, just the way it always had. Freedom was an illusion, and no more than that; an illusion between those with power and those without. How could they not see it? Who could ever promise him freedom from tyranny? How could the Romans give them their freedom, with the Saxons invading to pick up the reins? His knights were fools, even Arthur, for giving their lives for a cause, and Tristan both loved and hated that naiveté, envied their relative peace, and knew he would die to protect it. Better to live for themselves, to perfect their skills, to choose their own path and die with honour when the day came, for although Tristan would fight for his life, he knew better than most that death came to all men; it was only a question of how and when.  
  
Tristan was not afraid of being a deserter, either; how could he desert something he had never believed in? No, he stayed because he wished too, and the day that changed, he would ride away from the other men, into the hills, and he would never return. Arthur, perhaps, was the only man who knew this.  
  
Tristan's fingers stroked Iseult's feathers, admiring the sleek power contained in her small body. She had freedom, always. She had gifted Tristan with her presence, chosen him among the many knights, him above the mountains or the distant empty meadows, but still she was free, and the feral, confident knowledge of this glittered in her bright eyes. Tristan knew that a similar gleam often lit his own eyes, and never more so than on the battlefield. There, he stood on the brink of a freedom he could understand, for that kind of freedom was but a sword-stroke away. Life found and lost; all men searched for that final peace, whether they realised it or not.  
  
'Tristan?' Arthur's voice cut into Tristan's thoughts. Iseult ruffled her wings and flew to a low branch, clicking her beak with displeasure. Tristan's eyes did not rise from the dripping grass. 'We're moving out,' Arthur said finally. He did not wait for a reply, knowing there would be none, but tossed a large hunk of bread at the crouching man, who caught it easily.  
  
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They reached the small settling by mid-day. Arthur ordered him out immediately, to scout the movement of the Saxons, and with a wistful glance at the dismounting knights, who did not even look his way, he nodded and spun Tarquin. He did not have to ride far. The great foreign army stretched far larger than any Roman army he had seen. They walked; none of them rode astride horses. And they were fierce things. Tall, strongly built, animal skin clad men, with flowing blond hair. Tristan allowed himself only moments to observe, before he stealthily drew Tarquin back and urged him towards the Roman settling. His hand snuck towards the hilt of his fine curved sword, but he reined in his hunger for battle; an army such as that could surely not be avoided - battle would find him soon enough.  
  
He reported his findings to Arthur, who seemed determined to keep to the plan. Tristan could scarcely restrain from laughing when Arthur solemnly stated that he would be bringing the entire village. Taking the Pope's godson was foolhardy enough, but to bring along an entire train? Tristan's features hardened; it was suicide.  
  
Yet it was clear from Arthur's expression that he meant every word, and so Tristan masked his reservations and watched as Arthur went about his usual good deeds: freeing a stripped old man, shouting words of false encouragement to the villagers, parading his righteousness. He watched, too, from the back of Tarquin as his leader asked Dagonet to ax in the stoned-up door of an unusual looking hut, and disappear inside. He was hardly surprised when Arthur emerged ten minutes later, a young woman in his arms, and Dagonet, with a mere boy cowering painfully in his gentle grasp.  
  
Tristan sighed, and urged Tarquin forward. This was hardly the time for charity; already the Saxon drums drew near - the people should be loaded onto the wagons immediately, before any more time was lost. But all thoughts of Saxons fled from his mind as his breath caught upon recognising the blue tattoos on the woman's legs.  
  
'She's a Woad,' he stated the obvious darkly, reluctantly sheathing his sword as he noticed Galahad's scowl at his dangerous expression. He should slit her neck and be done with it - she certainly deserved less. His sharp eyes did not miss the way the Woad's eyes gazed admiringly up at Arthur, and Tristan turned away in disgust. This one would be trouble.  
  
As it became clear that the boy and woman were meant to be brought along as part of the entourage, Tristan bit back his snide thoughts. Galahad and Gawain's faces showed similar reservations, but they, too, remained silent, though they made no move to dismount and help. Lancelot was eyeing the Woad appreciatively, his expression souring almost imperceptibly when he noticed that her eyes were trained on Arthur.  
  
Tristan walked Tarquin onto the road leading out of the settlement; he could not bare to see the men fawn over a _Woad_ any longer. Had they learned nothing from their endless battles against her kind? Had they forgotten already the countless knights slain by their arrows, their knives? _Do they not know what they did to me?_ his mind echoed. He looked back, at the knights gathered together in a tight clump around the two sick prisoners, Gawain and Galahad craning their necks despite themselves. His mouth twisted bitterly as he realised that his hated separation from his knights had been brought on by himself; days from now the knights would go their own ways, and surely silent, heartless, Tristan would be the first to be forgotten.  
  
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Soon the village was moving out, into the low snowy mountains, as Tristan had suggested, the Saxon drums quickening the hearts of all but Tristan's. His heart lept only at the war cry of the blue warriors who had taken what was his on that day so long ago.  



	3. The Compassion of Stone

**Where Home Lies  
  
Chapter Three: The Compassion of Stone  
  
AUTHOR NOTE: Gah! I thought that in this chapter I would have Dagonet's funeral, but I only got as far as his death, so there isn't the interaction I promised in this chapter! :hangs head in defeat: I do apologise, but I WILL have dialogue at Dagonet's funeral, so if your starving for actual :gasp: TALK, there will be some in the next chappie. PLEASE REVIEW!!! I DIE WITHOUT REVIEWS! Now for the thank you's...  
  
Blue Eyes At Night - I know, isn't he just a fantastic character? The possibilities for fiction that he holds are just boundless...and yes, I am also a fan of his legendary story, though it has VERY little in common with the movie character.  
  
queenahems - Please don't think that Tristan is devoid of emotion; he's not! Though you won't see him 'changing' until the end of this chapter, and in the next ones, the compassion is there, just way, WAY down there. He has been brutalised by his life-style, and by his mysterious past, which will be partially revealed in the next chapter. And yes :grins: we should all pay much, much more attention to Tristan! All hail Tristan!  
  
Nini-Mouse - tee hee..I didn't find her name in the movie; 'Iseult' is actually the legendary name of Tristan's lover. [No, I'm not hinting at anything! Get your mind out of the gutter!!!!;)] I thought it was quite fitting though. And yes, the ending of the movie was just beautiful..it was so, so perfect.  
  
Shibbie - Awww...:huggles:...that is so sweet of you! I'm so happy to know people like it...and BTW..your fics are quite well done as well! Lol, though I don't usually go for slash! :grins:  
  
**  
The snow fell lightly; huge, fluffy white flakes that innocently dampened the knights clothing and muddied the trail, drawing muttered curses from Bors. Low mountains rose on either side of Tristan's chosen path, which was lined with looming, lush tress contrasting sharply with the snow weighing their branches down. It might have been peaceful, but for the ever-present, distant drums, which throbbed endlessly like a deer's heartbeat, and for the wagons which creaked and groaned and rustled with lowered voices.  
  
Tristan sat astride Tarquin, atop a low ridge overlooking the tail-end of the wagon train. His far-seeing eyes strained for the following army, but met only desolate wilderness.  
  
Arthur had sent Tristan out only hours after setting upon his trail through the mountains. He had not been surprised, for what else was a scout's use? As he had turned Tarquin to veer off into the trees, Tristan had caught Arthur's meaningful glance at Galahad, who sat aboard his grey horse, his hands resting on the saddle. _Ah._ Certainly, the path needed to be scouted, the army to be watched.  
  
And fights had to be avoided. No, a fight among the ranks simply would not do, when real battle snapped at their heels, and so Tristan found himself again apart from the knights, his only company the wind and the grey horse between his knees, as ever had been.  
  
His deep brown eyes eventually spotted a dark form swooping from the sky, and with a ghost of a smile, he trust his arm away from his body. The hawk dove at frightening speed, spreading her large wings to their full span at the last moment, landing lightly on her masters arm.  
  
'What did you see this time?' he murmured quietly, and she dipped her russet head. Tristan spoke mainly to himself, as he always had, though Iseult gazed at him with rapt attention. It was not the same attention the knights gave him. The knights listened to him when he spoke because he did not speak often, and because all of them listened subconsciously for any little slip up in which Tristan might reveal his obvious insanity. They turned to him, jests forgotten, easy smiles sliding from their faces, to focus eyes on his dark face, to digest his cool gaze and ponder the question of whether all men had hearts. But Iseult, Iseult gazed on him with the attention one gives to ones friend. In all his twenty seven years, only Iseult had looked at him like that.  
  
Sometimes, Tristan wondered what it would be like to be loved by a human.  
  
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The Woad remained with the train, much to Tristan's displeasure. Often, from his place at the front of the wagons, he would glance over his shoulder to see Arthur's white horse walking alongside the wagon where _she_ lay. He had not spoken to her. She was often there at night, however, when the knights gathered around their camp fire, a little away from the other people. Then, she sat near Arthur, or sometimes Lancelot. Though Tristan would not have stayed with them anyway, her presence effectively repelled his own among the knights. They did not miss him. The first night she had come to sit with them, a shawl wrapped half-heartedly over her attractively positioned dress, he had been sitting with the men, enjoying one of the first moments of dryness he had felt in days. Upon her silent entrance he had stood, and brushed past her, his dark eyes piercing her own as he resentfully stalked from the circle of warmth. The men had looked up as he left, their eyes remaining on his retreating back for only seconds, before turning welcomingly to the woman. Her name was _Guinevere.  
_   
Tristan had not been shocked to find the men taken with her. She was beautiful, and he had not missed the way she swayed her hips seductively, and sat a little too close. He watched from behind the trees, Iseult on his shoulder, as she laughed appreciatively at one of Bors' crude jokes. But Tristan knew what she was really after. He had seen her draw Arthur into the trees that night, had followed and watched as Merlin had stepped from the shadows. He had not drawn his sword, for clearly the old man was no threat; he was a leader, nothing more. And Guinevere had lead Arthur to him. They had been just a little out of ear-shot, and so Tristan had satisfied himself with witnessing Arthur's back stiffen, seeing him turn and walk slowly from the clearing. His eyes had returned hatefully to the young woman, who remained conversing quietly with Merlin. She had shown her true colours; her actions, more than her tattoos, spoke of her heritage. For Tristan knew well the two-faced soul all Woads possessed. He remembered.  
  
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On the eighth day after leaving the Roman settlement, the knights came to the edge of a frozen lake, and knew they had no choice but to cross. But the ice was thin, and while the camp was ordered to make their way carefully across the remainder of the lake, the knights remained behind. The time had come to face their Saxon enemies at last. The drums drew nearer by the minute, and the knights stood in a single line at the far end of the lake. Guinevere had stayed with them, to offer what help a Woad could. Tristan did not underestimate her; a Woad woman could kill as effortlessly as a man.  
  
When the army came at last into view, over two hundred strong, Tristan did not tremble, and neither did the other knights. The Saxons fired with their inferior bows, the arrows falling far short of the knights, but Tristan and Bors' arrows flew true into the Saxon ranks, striking down their marks. So it began. In a fire-fight that followed, Tristan drew and shot time after time, picking the edges of the regiment off, pushing the burly men together on the ice, which creaked ominously under their feet.  
  
When Dagonet dashed forward to hurl his enormous ax repeatedly into the ice in front of him, ignoring the arrows that struck only inches from his body, Tristan paused for only a moment. When the first arrow struck the tall mans chest, Tristan's bow fell, just a little, in his hands. When his knight at last achieved his goal, falling forward as the ice collapsed before him, Tristan's face flickered with something akin to confusion, if only for a moment, before drawing his bow string back again. When Bors and Arthur raced out to draw their friend and comrade out of the icy waters, Bors' strangled plea drifting across the ice, to drag his already dead body across the rapidly collapsing lake, his bow fell at last from his hands as he stared at the lifeless form of Dagonet.  
  
All of this progressed in mere moments, the battle begun and over before five minutes was past, the stain of Sarmatian blood spreading across the crisp snow of this foreign country. By the time Tristan had made his way over to the body of his silent knight, all emotion was wiped from his face, and he stood over the bluish figure and tamed the turmoil within him. The other knights did not bother, but shed tears that crystallised on their faces as they fell. And when Tristan strapped the mans body to the back of his black horse, who would bear just this last burden, no one was there to see the stony knight touch the face of his comrade, and wonder at the impossible compassion held within his shaking hands.  
  
**End Notes: See? Compassion. Didn't I say you would see it? :D Review, pretty please with kisses on top. And I shall punish myself for not writing in the dialogue...tune in for the next chapter...it'll be there!  
**


	4. Wild Treachery

**Where Home Lies**

**Disclaimer: Oops! I've been forgetting to put this on - anyway, I don't own much of anything at all, and certainly not the characters/places in this story!**

**Chapter Four: Wild Treachery**

**AUTHOR NOTES: Heh, this section is steadily getting longer. Ah well. I FINALLY got this chapter finished! Thank you to Jazzminna for help with the dialogue, which I did change a bit. In this chapter I will finally [somewhat] explain to you all what the heck happened to poor Tristan's family! Sort of. Kind of unclear, but ya. The next chapter will be over a week away from now, because I'm going to BC on holidays. But please REVIEW!! Huggles, as always, to all.**

**Nini - Oh my, I looked back and you are very right, the scene changes were so harsh and sudden! Well, I'll try harder to make them a bit smoother from now on, thanks for pointing that out!:)**

**koalared - I hope so! I'm going to try and make the ending as sad as possible. :laughs wickedly:**

**slightly-psychotic - I agree about the elf thing. Tristan just has that easy grace that is so beautiful to watch.**

**Jazzminna - once again, thanks for the dialogue. Also, I've been trying to make Tristan a bit more compassionate...most people are just misunderstanding his silent, restrained nature for coldness, though. You will see. [I hope]**

**Blue Eyes At Night - Yep, that scene is definitely included! Hope you like it...**

**guinevere - Wow...I'm very flattered! The thing about distrust...a bit of both. Mainly it is because she is a Woad, and therefore in his mind, a treacherous woman who might betray at any moment. He is not celibate, though I did consider that. But he has not loved any woman he has slept with, so that is pretty dang sad. And he is 27 years old. I know that might seem kind of young but...er...:thinks:...:runs off: Thank you!**

**Shibbie - awww...you are too sweet!!!!! :big grins: :big huggles: I think we should all cling to Tristan together :clings:**

**The Woods Witch, saleni, nora17 - thank you, thank you. Hopefully it will get even more sad. I will try!! Muahahahahaha**

**Tian Sirki - Thanks! At last you will know what he hates to remember. And Tristan is sexy...so very, very sexy...:drooooooollll: Oh, and I know I didn't update that fast...:huggles anyway:...sorry!******

**EDIT!!! Blue Eyes At Night - though I was planning on later explaining [in a conversation with Guinevere]how the 'blue people' were not, in fact [as Tristan had believed] Woads, but rather a wild, nomadic tribe completely separate, your review made me think that maybe I should hint at this knowledge earlier, so that reviewers would not get confused. Thanks for noting that!!!**   


The ride to Hadrian's Wall was long and silent. It was not the silence which hums with tension or determination, but the silence that betrays the anguish of regret. Tristan rode at the back, as rear-guard, with Bors ponying Dagonet's black stallion in front of him. The large, blue-tinged hand of his dead knight hung accusingly below the blanket thrown over the body, and Tristan forced his eyes to the sky, searching vainly for the familiar shape of Iseult. He needed to see her, to look into her glacial eyes and reassure his tumultuous mind. 

He had watched many knights fall bravely in battle, over his fifteen years of service. But they had been fighting for their lives, their lungs hopelessly straining for the last selfish whisp of breath as the light drained from their eyes. Dagonet had been fighting for something Tristan had thought the knights incapable of in these last days before their long awaited freedom was finally claimed. Surely Dagonet had something to live for - something above and beyond Tristan - the boy, at least. Surely he was entitled to protect himself, to survive, so that he might terminate the duty he had never wanted; a duty that had taken the silent knight away from all the things he had never spoken of. And yet he had offered up that freedom, had voluntarily relinquished his grip on the dream of distant hillsides. 

Tristan told himself that Dagonet had been foolish, that he had been no more than a dumb brute, throwing himself in over his head. And yet he knew it was not so. He recognised the determination of a man who charged to his death, had seen it's sweet release halo Dagonet. And to his surprise, Tristan felt a twinge deep within himself, a personal rebuttal, and a grave solemnity for the dead man that might have been respect. 

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The walls of the courtyard seemed smaller, and darker, then the ones the knights had stood within only weeks ago. A heavy sorrow hung darkly in the air, further irritated by the false cheerfulness of the Bishop, who stood with a smile plastered on his face as the grim knights surrounded him. His voice echoed dimly in Tristan's ears, who's eyes were riveted on Lucan, the boy whom Dagonet had become so taken with. 

He was nine, perhaps. It seemed to Tristan that he moved in slow motion, as his tiny hand reached forward to grasp the cold one of Dagonet's, to draw the massive ring from his finger. Tristan found himself entranced by this scene, by the years that had suddenly fallen on the young boy's already old shoulders. The abandoned expression on his open face, a face that in only brief seconds, had closed and armed itself, a brave veil shielding the tears from the world. Tristan gazed at the boy, and saw himself, on a day he wished he could forget. 

'You're free. Come, bring me their papers.' As Tristan tore his eyes from the heartbroken boy, the Bishop's voice became suddenly sharper in his ears, and he turned his attention to the matter at hand. 'Come, come, you're free men.' The words did not hold the same charm for his men that they might have a few weeks ago, and instead held a kind of mocking, a faint laughter that rubbed salt in fresh wounds. The face of Arthur, deeply lined with burden, was twisted bitterly as he stepped forward to intercept the Bishop. 

'Bishop Germanius, _friend _of my father.' And he was gone, his hunched shoulders stooped by some invisible weight that Tristan knew all too well. He left a broken troop of warriors. 

Of all the knights, Galahad was perhaps the most changed in those last days. The boyish naiveté was gone, or hidden, and even the mention of his papers, his precious freedom, brought barely a flicker of recognition to his downcast eyes. No one stirred when Lancelot stalked forward to grab all six of the release papers. One by one, he thrust them into the knight's hands, sarcasm lacing his words and walling away his pain. 

'You are _free_ now,' he said darkly, viciously shoving Tristan his roll of paper. Tristan looked at it, this tiny piece of parchment dictating that he was a free man, that he had ever been imprisoned. It took a great show of will that his hand did not crush that paper, that he raised his eyes calmly from his white knuckles to pretend indifference at Bors' stricken face. Bors used no such restraint, but shook with anger as Dagonet's and his own discharges were handed gently to him. His eyes shone a little too brightly, his heart too raw with the grief that was wracking it. 

'Free man?' he choked raggedly. 'He's already a free man. He's _dead!_' The papers were hurled at the feet of the Bishop, who's beady eyes feigned sympathy for the fallen knight. How Tristan longed to pluck them out. 

Like dead men, the knights drifted from the courtyard, some going to regain their composure before Dagonet's burial, others leaving to stand forlornly on the edge of a world that was not their own, in realisation of a freedom that could never be what it once was. 

Gawain, however, stepped forward from beside Tristan, and stooped to delicately pick Bors and Dagonet's papers from the ground. Tristan was close behind him, though instead he drew near to the Bishop, and revelled in the fear that dripped rank from the man before him. His hands examining the finely crafted box that had held the release papers, his mind focused on keeping his fingers from his sword hilt, he at last judged the box worthy, sprung it from the baffled Bishop's grasp, and sauntered from the cursed mans presence. 

------------------------------------------------------ 

It was not a lonely grave. Too many knights had fallen before him, too many brave young men rotting in their green graves, with only their gently waving swords to mark them. Grass grew lush over the mounds, rust and moss sneaking up the blades of the men's swords, rendering each grave exactly as the one before it, until no one could tell one dead man from the other. Dagonet's stood out starkly among the others, the fresh black dirt wet and the unrusted sword thrusting proudly out of it. 

Tristan lay the little carved box atop the mound, at the foot of the sword. Inside was Dagonet's slightly rumpled release papers. It twisted Tristan's heart to see the folly of these useless pieces of parchment, but Dagonet deserved to have his discharge anyway. Not that he needed it now; he had been allowed the most honourable discharge a man could long for. 

Tristan heard footsteps behind him, but he did not stand, nor did he look up from where he was kneeling by the soft, overturned dirt of Dagonet's grave. The other knights had long since wandered away: Bors mounting his black steed and spurring him into a mad, reckless gallop towards the dark forest, Arthur squinting through his tears after the heavy man before stalking from the graveyard, Lancelot on his heels, Gawain blindly steering a zombie-like Galahad before him. Though once the men might have struck out excitedly for home, memories of fallen friends and knights had crept stealthily up to blacken those images of green hillsides, and had replaced them with visions of only death and shadow. 

'Did he die well enough, Tristan?' came Galahad's softly mocking voice. Tristan knew that it was sorrow that coloured Galahad's voice now, and so he did not raise his voice, or tinge his voice with contempt. 

'There is honour in death,' he said finally, more to himself than the knight behind him. 

'Honour? What honour is there in dying? What glory is there when you are dead and buried, and leave nothing but emptiness and pain behind you?' Galahad's voice grew in volume, and Tristan was not certain of whether the younger man lashed out at his apparent coldness, or at the frustration of the way things had turned. 

Tristan rose, and forced himself to slowly face Galahad, to reluctantly raise his eyes to meet the other knights defiant ones, which dared him to say something worth arguing. Galahad was perhaps disappointed when the dark knight only dipped his head and shook it, in a way that almost recalled defeat. But surely not, not from Tristan. Galahad's resolve flickered, just a little, when he saw how Tristan's hands clenched and unclenched, and how the emotionless face twitched as though struggling to retain it's uncaring mask. 

'Dagonet will not be forgotten. If nothing else, the boy, Lucan, will carry his name within himself.' Tristan's eyes rose briefly to the sky, seeking some phantom comfort. 'He died with an honour few of us will ever know, and rides now with an army of heroes.' He turned his back on Galahad then, his shoulders stiff and unyielding, sending the clear signal to the other man that the conversation was ended. The younger knight, confused by the self-loathing in Tristan's usually dead-pan voice, stared at the back of the knight for a long moment, as though debating speech, before turning finally from the grave of his comrade. 

--------------------------------------------------------------- 

When Galahad's footsteps had faded to silence, Tristan turned his dark eyes to the grave once again, but this time his thoughts did not dwell on the knight who lay beneath the dark soil. 

Memories welled uncontrollably in the dark places of Tristan's mind, his stony will failing him at last. Was there truly no honour in death? He had always clung to the belief that there was, that he might earn his honour, for if there was not, what was the point in fighting? Where was the glory in war? _And what of vengeance? _spoke his mind. He had only to remember the screams of his family, the roar of his father, to reassure himself that he was justified, that he had to be. The image of his brave knight, Dagonet, racing forward across the ice, came too close to a memory of Tristan's from long ago. Only he had not raced forward. 

It had been Woads, Tristan had decided on that day long ago; an ancient Celt people whose name was whispered even among the distant Sarmatians, the people who were rumored to venture out on long journeys hundreds of miles beyond their territory. Most Sarmatian's believed it to be nothing but ghost stories, that the blue-skinned people of the woodlands were a tribe apart, and one not given to the brutal fighting of Woads. But all these long years Tristan had been sure, had depended upon the belief, that only the legendary Woad people could be capable of such savagery. The treacherous people whose name more than any other lit a fire deep in his heart. 

His brother had not seen their treachery. _Gurievian._ His name alone brought memories Tristan had hoped long forgotten to his eyes. He remembered how he had seen him kissing one of _them_, in the forest, on many occasions. She had been beautiful, and nearly naked, her arms snaking around his brothers neck, bright blue tattoos standing out on her white flesh. Back then, Tristan had thought it only unwise. But he remembered also, the day when he had come home from hunting, five hares hanging from the pole draped over his skinny young shoulders, to see, from the edge of the forest, his home in flames. 

And he had just stood there. He had not run forward to help fight, even when he had seen the spear cut off his father's roar of rage, even when he had seen that it was the same woman whom his brother had loved that had thrown it. He had stood frozen, safe among the trees, as his family had been butchered, as the flames from his families humble little bunch of huts had glowed on the skins of their attackers, had made their blue skin glint like some devilish creatures'. At the time he had not understood it. He could not comprehend why the warriors had attacked his family, a family that had never found fault among the wild people, had never caused any problems. Or how his brother's lover could scream and kill with the rest of her people, while Gurievian was shot down by a feathered arrow. 

He had not understood even when the blue warriors had disappeared into the forest like ghosts, leaving the family strewn across the little meadow, their bodies twisted grotesquely in death. He had wept then, and it had not been the last time, whatever the other knights might think. He had set to work burying his family, but had grown weak and tired after his mother and father, and had fallen asleep, curled on his side, between the graves. 

And when the Romans had come for him, they had taken in the smouldering huts and the two fresh mounds in once glance, and had offered him a shaggy horse in the next. He had not been able to explain that his brother and sisters bodies still lay crumpled in his parents home, their previously stiff limbs going soft and flimsy and too flexible, and if he had, they would not have let him bury them. They had lifted him and, ponying his horse so he did not have to direct him in where to go, they were off, his little home disappearing behind him like some burning nightmare. He had been the first boy among the future Sarmatian knights to be rounded up, and so no one had witnessed the death that had blanketed Tristan's life from so young an age. 

Many days later, in the deep of the night, when he had lain down as far from the other boys as the guard would allow, he had decided that the blue savages, the Woads, were a barbaric, honour-less people, that Gurievian's lover had betrayed him and used his trust to discover the location of his home. Poor, naive Gurievian. Tristan swore on that day to never make a mistake such as that. 

He tried to forget that he had stood in the trees like a coward and had done nothing. But he could not, and so he fought each day with a vigour and ease that disgusted the knights who were ignorant of Tristan's past, in an attempt to redeem events that he had done nothing about, that had taken any dream of freedom from his mind, leaving only the harshness of the present and no thoughts of the future. 

Tristan remembered, and for the final time, he wept over the unresponsive grave of Dagonet for the family he had once known, barely noticing when the one he had sought settled herself gently on his shaking shoulder. 

**Please review, my beauties!**


	5. Unstained Freedom

**Where Home Lies  
  
Chapter Five: Unstained Freedom  
  
Disclaimer: Blah blah blah...don't own....don't sue.....blah blah  
  
AUTHOR NOTES!!!! :sniffles: Well, I'm all done, guys. I admit, it's tough to end this story because it was one of my absolute favorites for writing! All my reviewers have been so kind to me, and thank you for all your patience! Personal thanks are definitely in order...[in a sec]. It is a good thing that I just finished this up, because tommorrow I start school[gr. 12, bleh] so I probably wouldn't have time! Oh, and just so you know, I had a liiiittle bit of trouble with tense at the end of the story, so I apologise for it switching between present and past. :blush: For all of you that were wondering about the Woads-in-Sarmatia thingy. Well. Just in case Guinevere does not explain it well enough in this chapter, here is my theory:  
  
according to some historians, it is believed that the Picts[I'm pretending that the Woads were Picts. :cough:] came originally from Scythia. When the Sarmatians invaded, driving the Scythians out, they also drove the future-Picts out. For this reason, some of the Picts aka Woads still linger on the borders of Sarmatia, and therefore, when Tristan is just a lad, the Woads attack his family purely out of hatred, revenge..blah blah. It's not a super strong theory, but hey, it fit my story. And it is maybe true. :looks hopeful: Now for the reviewers....HUGS!!**

**   
  
Blue Eyes At Night - Well, I'm not really into reincarnation, but truly, I left a lot up to the reader. You can take their relationship however you will...hope my weak explaination of the Woads in Sarmatia helped...thanks for being a steady reviewer!!:hug:  
  
Nini - Oh my, you completely read my thoughts there. Though I decided not to take that road in my story, I TOTALLY considered doing that thing with Tristan being a Woad too. Come to think of it, I really didn't broach the whole subject of the tattoos. The problem with this story was, I had SO much to say, but I wanted to keep it short!! There are a lot of things about Tristan that I wanted to cover, but I just ran outta space. :drool: I, too, always go for the dark, longish haired, mysterious guys...Tristan is right up my alley. Galahad, by the way, was just another loose string that I never got to tie. I was considering having him visit his grave, and being a little bit more humble and understanding, but I didn't want to drag it out after Tristan's death. Thank you! You were one of my most involved reviewers, and I appreciate it.:huggle:  
  
guinevere - Nope, Gurievian was just a name I thought up on the spur-of-the-moment...I liked it, and thought it sounded normal among the other names of Arthurian legends. Thanks for reading!:grins:  
  
nora17 - aw...I know, isn't Iseult and Tristan just a beautiful relationship? You are too kind! Sorry I didn't update very soon! :huggles:  
  
Tian Sirki - of COURSE you get huggles! :huge huggles: It is the sexy ones that have it the hardest...it's what makes us love them so. :sniffles: I'm going to miss all you guys so much! Your all so friendly and nice! :bow: Thanks so much for reading and reviewing, Tian.  
  
Shibbie - :clings: You always make me laugh and go 'awww' all at the same time! :massive huggle: Thanks so much, Shibbie. I'll miss you!  
  
LivEviL - :grins: Aww..thanks!  
  
Jazzminna - Thanks again for all your help! :hug: I'm glad you've enjoyed it...:laughs wickedly: I like being hard on characters...I like making people sniffle.  
  
spotted.paw - Wow, you really summed[sp?] my story up well! Thanks for being so kind to me! I know it isn't perfect, but I just wanted to put on paper the way I think he might think. Glad you liked it! :beams:  
  
**It was well, perhaps, that the knights' hunger for freedom had dimmed over the last few days, for on the night following Dagonet's burial, the full strength of the Saxon army was revealed to the knights of the Round Table. All thoughts of green hills faded into the past like the faces and voices of their families; things of myth and nothing more.  
  
The resigned sigh and stoop of Arthur's shoulders told Tristan all he needed to know, as the men stood on the edge of Hadrian's Wall and watched the Saxon torches blink like hellish stars. And when Arthur turned and walked silently down the stone steps, the other knights understood as well, Lancelot springing after him in a hopeless attempt to keep his anchor. It was a plea of desperation, for even Lancelot knew that Arthur would stay, and the legendary knights of Sarmatia - the men who had lost no battle - would run.  
  
The knights watched in heavy silence as Lancelot put himself between Arthur and honour, willing their leader to by-pass the high road this once. Tristan turned his eyes to the night, rather than watch the whip-thin knight fight a losing battle. Lancelot did not fight to keep their Roman leader among the knights. Rather, his stormy features quivered and shook at the prospect of _his_ leader being gone from his life, at the inevitability of giving into his tempest at last. Lancelot, who's desperation lay naked in his face, the way it never had been. Lancelot, who had no cause. And even for this man, who's wild black eyes begged for this thread of certainty and safety, Arthur could not be turned aside.  
  
As the somehow shrunken form of Arthur disappeared into the shadows of the keep, Tristan kept his gaze on Lancelot. When his fellow knights looked away from their broken comrade, as though that could make him better, Tristan's shadowed eyes caught the long moment that stretched between Lancelot, and the Woad, Guinevere. And when Lancelot stalked from the light of the torches, Tristan saw the woman glide away towards Arthur's quarters, and disappear inside.  
  
The knights stood for a long while atop that wall, Tristan slipping silently and unnoticed down the stairs and into the cool darkness of the keep's far reaches. He had never wished to see their foolish dreams tarnished this way. He had never hoped to watch them from the shadows, to see them blindly walking their separate ways, to spend the night alone, as they would now. That was his burden, a role he had slid into without knowing, over fifteen years ago.  
  
When he had had the chance to speak about his past, he had not, and now, it hardly seemed relevant to the other men. He had hated his silence, but had been comforted, somewhere deep within himself, to see the other men develop such a lively camaraderie. He had felt safe, in a way he couldn't quite understand, being on the outside, holding his dark little story locked inside his mind where they might never find it. And now, to see them fractured and unsure, alone, both physically and mentally, on the last night they might still be considered knights, threw Tristan into a kind of agitation he had never known. What was he now, if not the outsider, the loner?

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Tristan remained in the shadows of the wall, invisible panic swirling beneath his features, until the Romans finally settled into restless quiet. He made his way to the top of the wall, to focus his eyes on the flickering lights of his enemies, alone on the eve of battle.  
  
It was nearing the light hours of morning when the rumpled form of Guinevere made an appearance. Tristan caught the rustle of movement from Arthur's tent, which stood in clear view of his seat on the cold stone. He was up and down the stairs in an instant, his mind ignoring the disgruntled creaking of his chilled joints. She did not see him, her guard was so slack, until he stood but a stride from her, and the whisper of his blade snapped her head around to see her attacker, and was met with the curved sword of Tristan. Knight he might be, comrade of Arthur, but the fear in her eyes did not dim with that knowledge. She had heard enough of this dusky knight, and her Woad instincts prepared her for death. She was surprised by when he spoke instead.  
  
'So. You are done with him. Did you slit his throat, or will you leave the dirty work for your fellows?' The harsh rumble of his voice was reminiscent of the creaking of timbers, of an avalanche in the mountains, or the thunder of falling water. She had not heard him speak, in over two weeks.  
  
Her eyes riveted to the curved blade at her neck, she addressed him as one might a mad man or a child, slowly and in soothing tones, despite her trembling heart.  
  
'I know nothing of what you speak, knight. Arthur is well and sleeping.'  
  
At his contemptuous snort, she raised her gaze to her attackers eyes, but lowered them just as quickly at the steely lack of emotion. His eyes seemed almost black.  
  
'Oh no, you are in love!' his tone turned bitter. 'You will turn on him when he stretches out his hand to help you, to cut him mercilessly at your feet. I have seen it before.'  
  
As much as she did not want it to, her gaze rose once more, to study his eyes and his features, and to remember the words the knights had spoken.  
  
'Why do you hate Woads?' her question caught him entirely off guard, and his sword seemed to shiver, though it did not lower from her neck. 'Why do you hate us?' she repeated. Her eyes did not move from his, and finally the sword was lowered, and he instead played with the tip of it with his fingers. She was not fooled by his pretended indifference. She had struck lava, which had bubbled always just below the surface, had provided that extra bit of strength behind his sword thrusts, had cooled to stone on his exterior.  
  
He did not answer for many minutes.  
  
'I should hardly have to answer that,' he said softly, not looking at her. 'Why does anyone hate the Woads? They are troublesome vermin.' His words sounded weak to his own ears.  
  
'You lie.' The word came out harsher than she had intended, and she hastily changed her tact. 'The others, the knights, they told me a little about you. What they knew of you, that is. And one thing they could all agree on was that you had always been... vigorous in your extermination of my people. I am only a woman,' she said lightly, 'but I believe you have a past.'  
  
'All humans have pasts,' he said sharply. 'But why would I wish to speak of a past that would ostracise me even further?' the look she gave him held question. 'I am a _coward_,' he said violently, and his eyes seemed to challenge her to agree.  
  
If there was something Guinevere might have described him as, it would not have been 'coward.' A heartless savage, perhaps. But even that was not correct, for was it not emotion that seeped from every crease and smooth plane and scar on this man? The facade fell before her, and fifteen years of silence seemed to break in her quiet. Sometimes silence, rather than question, bring answers.  
  
'Woads attacked my family when I was only a boy,' he said, his eyes focused in a distance only he could see. 'Everyone was killed but me. Even my brother, who had been a Woad's lover. But that isn't true, is it? She had never wanted him for his love, or his body, even.' His conversation hardly seemed directed at Guinevere, but rather at himself, and he pressed his thumb into the blade of his sword until it bled. He looked at it. 'I saw it happen, too, but I didn't help.' He stopped again, and a twisted smile darkened his face, as though he couldn't quite believe he was speaking this aloud, to a female Woad no less.  
  
'I was a coward, and I stood safe among the trees to watch my family die. But I still remember that woman's face when she killed my father. Those sounds...' His eyes snapped suddenly into focus, and he lapsed into silence, his eyes wracking the Woads face, gauging her reaction.  
  
She shrugged, and the blade went up again, to her throat. She didn't flinch. 'It is possible. Many of my people still harbour hate towards the Sarmatians. Your ancestors drove the Woads out of Sarmatia long ago, and many other people with us. Perhaps a border clan attacked your family out of ancient revenge.'  
  
Tristan could only gape at her dismissive attitude. 'You are traitors,' he said in a low voice.  
  
'What - for hating our conquerors? So you have a great love for Romans, then?' He did not answer. 'How can you hate a people who want nothing more than the freedom that you yourself hold preci-'  
  
'I hold nothing precious, _Guinevere_. I hold no hope for freedom. You know nothing of me.'  
  
'And you know nothing of me.' she said stoutly, pushing the blade carefully down from her chin. 'I am not going to betray Arthur, or the other knights, or you. Merlin and his clan are all Arthur has got against the Saxons. We will stand behind him, since you and yours, will not.'  
  
'Only to shoot him when his back is turned!' he cried in disbelief. She was already shaking her head, and they stubbornly glared at each other over crossed arms. The curved sword of Tristan lay planted in the earth by his feet.  
  
'My people were only fighting for what they saw as they're own, Tristan,' she tried again. 'We are not so different from yourself.' Her eyes lingered on the tattoos which graced the knights high cheekbones.  
  
She was gone when he looked up, and he was surprised he had not heard her leave. Exhaustion took him, as he looked down at his finely wrought sword, the exhaustion that follows the baring of ones soul. He retreated to the one place that he hoped might take him back to where had been only a few weeks ago. To a place where his foolish words might never have been spoken. Propping his saddle at the forelegs of Tarquin, who stood dozing apart from the other horses, he crumpled to the ground, his dreams remembering that day from which all his life had sprung. But the war cries of the Woads were no longer the shrieks of demons.

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A few short hours later, the keep was awake as the sun rose over the hills beyond the wall, and so was Tristan. He watched thoughtfully as Arthur left his tent, looking strangely rested in comparison to the other men, a look of peace relaxing the lines of his face. How Tristan dreaded to leave this camp, to leave his leader behind to fight a battle he could not possibly win. Yet his hands mechanically packed and repacked his saddle bags, and his legs lifted him into the saddle of Tarquin, and still he did not speak out against leaving.  
  
Iseult had come to him. She sat, perched gracefully atop his arm as they trotted out the huge gates of Hadrian's Wall and headed east, at the rear of a long wagon train. The men were silent, and Tristan knew their conscience's warred with broken memories of freedom. When Bors rode his black steed out of formation, to salute to the lone figure of Arthur as he always had, his voice echoing over the hills and drawing the gazes of many a Roman soldier, Tristan knew what was to happen. And he welcomed it.  
  
Scanning the faces of his knights, Tristan knew they did as well, that their honour and friendship ruled their hearts, not a distant home where families lay buried and lost. Iseult, sensing the change in the knights, ruffled her wings and let out a piercing cry to the hills. Something spurred Tristan on to raise his arm, to whisper softly to his closest companion.  
  
'Hey...you are free.' The words sounded empty in his ears, for when had she ever been his? How did he, who put no faith in freedom, have the authority to grant it to another? But she lifted her wings on the wind and soared up above the train, to circle slowly once, before disappearing into the clouds. All the men watched her. All the men believed they rode to their deaths as they caught each others eyes, and turned to meet their fates.  
  
Tristan most of all.  
  
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For all their great size, the Saxon army seemed to lack in wit. With quick sweeps from the backs of their horses, the knights managed to strike down enemy after enemy, turning them on each other in smoky confusion, until faced with the true bulk of the army at last. Despite Tristan's reservations, and doubts, the Woads proved true to Guinevere's word. They were there, and for once, their lethal skills were turned on someone besides the knights.  
  
The other men spared no time scanning the army, but lept into the battle to topple as many enemies as possible. But that was not for Tristan. From his vantage point on Tarquin, Tristan's eyes narrowed on the figure of a large Saxon, who's stride and skill and arrogance marked him as important. _Him_. Sliding from the back of his horse, he approached this man, who watched him as an equal worth fighting, and prowled in a fighters crouch.  
  
The sounds of the battle, and the sounds of agony, faded into the background as the two warriors began the slow dance of death, Tristan raising his slender sword to easily parry the Saxon's heavier broad sword. It was almost monotonous, lulling, the steady clash of steel on steel, the cool breeze blowing smoke to sting his eyes, to trick them. Every warrior makes a mistake, and Tristan knew the instant he made his. The cold steel slid easily past Tristan's light leather armour to bite the flesh of his sword arm.  
  
It was another of those moments when time around them seemed to freeze, and there was really no army or battle, just the Saxon and himself. His sword lay abandoned on the bloody grass, unstained, and with hopeless determination, he reached instead for the small daggers which lay hidden in his thin breastplate. An outsider might recognise this as the moment when the duel was decided; when the wounded knight made a decision that secured the outcome. The Saxon paused a moment, watching his floundering enemy, before kicking the curved sword toward the knight. It was not an act of mercy. Rather, it was an act of respect, and one that Tristan recognised. His hand wavered before his daggers. The Saxon would come to a swift end, should he employ them.  
  
Instead, with his eyes remaining on the Saxon, he bent stiffly to retrieve his sword, to grasp it weakly in his hand. He commanded it to be strong, but his will alone could not stopper the flow of blood, and strength drained from his hand like water from a broken bowl. He straightened, faced his enemy, to look for a moment into the eyes of the man across from him. The expression he found on it was surely what many of Tristan's victims had seen as their lifeblood stained the ground. The face of a man who believed his skill to be an art. A man who appeared heartless. Tristan struck suddenly forward, knowing the weak attempt would be conquered, pounced upon. He felt again, the sharp thrust of the Saxon's sword as it tore through his abdomen, set him on fire and freezing him numb all at once, staining his chest red.  
  
He didn't feel the sword drop from his bloody hands as he crumpled to the ground. But he saw it's glint and he struggled toward it in his futile struggle, amazed by his own will to live, horrified by the pathetic efforts of his weakening body. He did not think about what he would do when he reached the sword, only dragged himself towards it, towards his saviour. He did not reach it. He had thought his body numb, but the pain that shook his body was real, as his head was ripped back by the hair, to pull himself upright when it had he strength to do so.  
  
He looked at the sky. Had he been able to, he might have laughed at the way the sun smiled down at his death. For the sun was shining, in a way it never did, through the clouds and the smoke. And he knew suddenly that he did not want to die. For it was true; there was no honour in death, only cold, hateful violence. He wondered if his brother saw him now, and shook his head at his effort. He wondered if his brother forgave him for failing. For no amount of death had brought them back.  
  
And he wished for a moment that he might have seen Arthur's new world, that he might have died as an old man, many years from now, the peace of freedom easing the creases from his brow.  
  
Instead he saw his one companion, his free hawk, his Iseult, soaring high above him. It seemed strange that she would return to him when he had so clearly released her, if she had ever been his to have. It seemed strange that she would come now, when always before she had avoided the stench and sound of battle. Were he soaring beside her, he might have seen Lancelot being struck down, finding his cause at last, or perhaps the arrow that pierced Gawain's side. He might have seen Arthur turn to see him, kneeling before his killer, might have seen the agony and regret and pain light his eyes when he realised he could not stop the final blow. He might know that he was not so hated after all. But he is already somewhere else.  
  
The dusk had begun to fall, though somehow the sun still burnt his stinging eyes. He strained forward, to see Iseult through the darkness, to focus his swimming eyes on her graceful, arcing wings. He could not feel the hand tearing his hair now. And he understood, as he kneeled before his enemy, why his friend was there. She was waiting for him. She had always been free, and she was waiting for him. This thought satisfied him, even as he caught the glare of a sword being swung towards him. _Freedom_. Freedom to go where he thought he could never be welcome again.  
  
The sky was the same, the same as the one where he was from. He looked up at it, and was home again. Peace's mantle was upon him.  
  
Night fell.

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The grave was like all the rest. Green and lush, a delicate vine wraping it's tendril around the hilt of the uniquely curved sword. It has not been visited for many years, and yet never was it forgotten. Tears fertilised the soil. But the dead were not present to hear them shed.  
  
The sun is shining now, and a hawk circles, above the hills not far from the little graveyard, it's haunting cry almost lost in the wind. The grass in that place, is unstained.  
  
**One last review, pretty please with huggles on top! I'll miss you guys!! :sniff:**


End file.
